


and should i have the right to smile

by silver_and_exact



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: ...pre-slash?, Albert is no fun, Gen, M/M, also it is a oneshot, also it is set in a vague unspecified time post-Twin Peaks, and Cooper is Cooper, and is sort of about Christmas but sort of not, and my first work in this fandom, in which Gordon is a terrible boss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_and_exact/pseuds/silver_and_exact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albert never takes time off from work.<br/>short, sort of silly post-canon oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and should i have the right to smile

**Author's Note:**

> hello 
> 
> so... this is the first story i've actually completed writing and decided was alright enough to share with the internet. i'm kind of terrified of both criticism and praise, but i should deal with that like the reasonably sane adult i ought to be morphing into any day now. 
> 
> um... so here's this thing i wrote. the title is the last line of Portrait of a Lady by T. S. Eliot. i thought it was appropriate, if slightly over-serious.

 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

            Albert Rosenfield hated Christmas. 

  
Though he was adamantly secular, it wasn't the religious bit that got to him. It wasn't the garish sweaters, or the gingerbread-flavored _everything_ , or even the dodgy men in Santa suits whom Albert was almost certain would be persons of interest in future criminal investigations.

One of the main reasons Albert was less-than-fond of the holiday season was its arbitrariness. 

            He supposed most people weren't as accustomed to being miserable as he was, so winter took them by surprise.  The diminished sunlight and hopelessly bleak weather chipped away at their psyches until they all went a little crazy; ergo, Christmas came about and, right on cue, the whole damned world started nattering on and on about peace on earth.  As if they actually cared that much.  Albert cared a hell of a lot more than all of these troglodytes with their insipid seasons' greetings, and he did it all year 'round, thank-you-very-much.   
  
Sure, his brand of caring was a bit on the abrasive side, but he wasn't going to bother softening it to try and charm people into liking him.   

  
            But although the whole thing was decidedly phony and obnoxious, and encouraged a kind of rose-tinted denial Albert had no patience for, that wasn't really what bothered him the most.  He'd be damned if anyone ever suckered him into admitting it—he didn't even admit it to himself most of the time—but the main problem was that everything about Christmas was designed to call attention to how alone or not alone you were.  You had to have friends and family members to give gifts to, and a place to have Christmas dinner, and people who were willing to give gifts _to_ you.   
  
Otherwise, you were an instant object of pity, a lonely creature lacking in normal, life-sustaining interpersonal relationships. 

            At least, becoming an object of pity was the first stage.  When people got to know him, this sympathy usually shifted into a belief that Albert's perennial friendlessness was a sort of comeuppance.   
  
Perhaps Albert's insults and snide comments had been overheard by some higher power, and a fitting cosmic judgment had been rendered; perhaps he had been cursed to live a life punctuated by solitary holidays spent chain-smoking in efficiency apartments and sub-par hotel rooms after an impossibly long workday.  Occasionally this belief was followed by some guilt, then more pity, then firm certainty in the justness of Albert's punishment, then more guilt, and so on and so forth.  

He was usually accused of being a sociopath.  It was all incredibly predictable.

            He didn't _feel_ very lonely, though.  Or particularly like a sociopath.  He genuinely liked being the one person in the Bureau whose gaze didn't longingly rest on the exit door on December 25th.  He liked knowing that he could remain productive while everyone else was pining over some fantasy.  Albert would rather be actively helping people than sitting around discussing sports scores and family gossip.  Unfortunately, everyone else seemed to view his attitude toward the holidays as a defense mechanism.  Albert didn't much care if it was; he preferred the idea of maintaining a useful delusion over senselessly wallowing in a sea of sentimental garbage.     

            But one Christmas, something truly unheard-of happened.  Albert arrived at the lab with customary punctuality, picked up his fourth cup of coffee of the morning in the break room, and checked his clipboard only to find that there were no autopsies scheduled for that day.   
  
There weren't even any urgent tests that needed to be performed, or any less-than-urgent tests, for that matter.  No toxicology reports, no DNA analysis, not even any fingerprint fragments to examine.  He was looking at a blank sheet of paper.  A blank sheet of paper which was promptly crumpled and tossed in the bin.

  
            This was, of course, absurd.  The holidays were always statistically violent times, with tensions over finances and familial relationships stretched to their breaking point.  Individuals who wanted to cause the most harm usually chose days that were already memorable to commit their crimes during: birthdays, anniversaries, and of course, Christmas.  There was no way there wasn't at least a suspicious suicide to look into.  The day was just too crowded with emotional baggage to go by peacefully. 

  
Albert reasoned that the day was young, and that there was still plenty of time for the world to fall back into its old habits.  There was something decidedly suspicious about this, though.  He decided to call Gordon and wring some answers out of him.  The answers he got were typical.

            "ALBERT! HELLO AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS!"

  
Albert looked toward the ceiling, steeling his patience before he said something that could cost him his job.

            "Gordon." he replied tersely, "I'm going to skip the formalities and jump straight to the point: I find it extremely hard to believe that there's nothing for me to do in the lab today, and don't try to tell me there isn't.  You people can't afford to send me home."

            "ALBERT, THERE'S NOTHING FOR YOU TO DO" Gordon bellowed through the receiver, and self-preservation forced Albert to briefly hold the phone away from his ear.  Some days Albert swore the hearing loss story was just a ruse, and Gordon just wanted to make everyone think he was deaf in order to conveniently diminish his own credibility whenever it suited him. 

Albert sighed.  If he wasn't determined to return to work, he'd probably have a drink.  Preferably a drink of something very strong. 

  
            "Listen, you know I'm not going to—"

            "YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO SPEAK UP!" Gordon interrupted, and Albert may have been reading between the lines a bit, but he sounded suspiciously bemused.    
 

            "GORDON. I am a professional and I have a job to do.  I'm the best damned pathologist you have, and if you really think I'm going to sit here and play games with you while a swarm of incompetents are botching simple tasks in my place, you ought to consider early retirement."

            "ALBERT, I'VE BEEN INFORMED BY SOME RELIABLE SOURCES THAT WHAT YOU NEED IS A BREAK.  YOU SHOULD GO ICE SKATING.  I HEAR THE WEATHER IS ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL FOR ICE SKATING RIGHT NOW."  
 

            Albert hung up the phone.  He knew how Gordon was; he'd probably ignore everything he said and rhapsodize about ice skating until Albert dropped the issue.  And what was all this business about reliable sources?  One of his slightly less moronic coworkers had probably gotten smart enough to realize that Gordon was more inclined to listen to concern than complaints, and hammed up the "poor, overworked, lonely, angry Albert" routine until Gordon was on the verge of sympathetic tears.   
  
They were always trying to get rid of him.  They needed time to nurse their bruised egos, the bunch of creampuffs.      

  
            He was just about to storm out of his office (admittedly a calculated storming, complete with irate hand gestures and grumbling) when the door was unexpectedly thrown open, forcing Albert to perform a terribly awkward scampering motion in order to evade a door-induced concussion.   
  
It was perfect, actually.  He had planned a more contrived incident—leave via the furthest exit possible, maximizing the chance of an encounter with some underling he could run into and subsequently verbally abuse.  This was better, though; he had something to be genuinely angry about. 

            Albert was just about to say something devastating involving the adjective "ham-handed" and some synonym for "idiot" when a familiar voice said "Albert!  Fantastic.  I've just been assigned a murder case, but I'm having a bit of trouble finding a member of the forensics team who's willing to accompany me to the site.  While I realize that you don't usually do field work, it's a matter of utmost urgency." 

            Cooper.  Albert almost wanted to hug him.   
  
He felt like calling Gordon back just to gloat, but that would take time away from actually getting something constructive accomplished, so Albert muttered a hopefully reluctant-sounding "I suppose so" and followed Cooper to his car.   

            "So, how far away is this crisis, anyways?" Albert said, buckling his seatbelt and lighting a cigarette—a combination Cooper raised an eyebrow at but declined to comment on.  Realizing it was probably fifteen degrees outside, and that he ought to keep the window open, Albert reluctantly snuffed the cigarette.     

            "Oh, not too far," Cooper said vaguely.  "I'll admit, Albert, I'm a bit apprehensive about this one.  Seems like it came out of nowhere—the local police couldn't have had much of a chance to look over the scene before I was called about it," Cooper said, frowning momentarily before returning to his default expression of slightly unnerving optimism.  "I suppose it's because the crime scene is so close to the Bureau office."

            "Cooper, as long as our victim isn't still in the process of being stabbed or shot or bludgeoned, I think we'll be golden," Albert replied.   
  
Even though he meant it flippantly, Albert sometimes worried about things like that; the best he could do in a confrontation with an armed criminal would be to mace them or give them a comprehensive analysis of their flaws and inadequacies.  

            Cooper beamed, the cynical nuances of Albert's statement apparently dismissed as irrelevant data.   
  
Most people found Cooper's constant grins and thumbs-ups creepy and slightly insensitive, particularly in a situation like this, but Albert didn't mind it, really.  The Bureau employees who shuffled around looking morose after every homicide, now _those_ people were creepy and insensitive.  There was nothing useful about crying.  Not that Albert never took his work personally—if he was going to mope about it, he could do that at home on his own time, not the victim's.  Cooper could be as spacey and freakishly chipper as he wanted as long as it didn't hamper his ability to function.   
  
Albert had begrudgingly accepted Cooper's unusual methods years ago, when he'd realized that they almost always led to positive results.  That was what rational people did.  He still reserved the right to make fun of him, though.

            Albert's musings on appropriate emotional responses, responsibility, and Cooper were cut short, however, when he began to notice something alarming about his surroundings.  He was gazing out the passenger side window, toying with his lighter and longing for a cigarette, when the car made an unexpected turn.

 

... _down his street_.

 

            Before Albert had time to chastise himself for thinking irrationally, Cooper was parking right in front of his apartment. 

            There were other units in the building, of course, and sure, it was conceivable that there could have been a murder in one of them.  Albert never lived in any place that was particularly nice or expensive.  Though the lack of privacy was sometimes frustrating, he traveled far too much to care about his living space.   
  
He decided to keep his mouth shut about the location's significance for the time being, however—he didn't want to jump to conclusions.  More importantly, Albert didn't want to be seen as the kind of person who jumped to conclusions.  He wasn't very good at it—that was Cooper's job.   
 

            Ever since Twin Peaks, Albert had been a little more careful with Cooper than he was with most people.  He had been present for the bizarre death of Leland Palmer, and understood that Cooper had been through more than just an unexpectedly complicated homicide investigation.  Frankly, Albert was a bit surprised that the other agent was even allowed to return to his old job at the Bureau, albeit after some vacation time.   
  
He also wasn't sure how Cooper had managed to get rid of BOB, but he'd heard from Truman that it had involved motor oil and self-immolation. Trust Cooper to manufacture his own ritual on the spot.   
           

            So now, Albert found himself crossing the woefully icy sidewalk and creeping into his own apartment building with Cooper, whose eyes methodically darted about, taking in potentially relevant information about the area.  Albert was perilously close to laughing, and not a brief snicker, either—a full-blown hysterical _laugh._   The whole situation was ridiculous; he half expected some creature straight out of one of Cooper's damned dreams to appear.  A talking lampshade or something equally unlikely. 

            Albert's belief that he was playing a supporting role in some surrealist flight of fancy intensified as he noticed that Cooper had exited the stairwell on his floor.    
  
If there had been a murder on Albert's floor, he would have known about it.  He hadn't even been away from his apartment for more than two hours, and the FBI had somehow already been called in to investigate some situation he was beginning to suspect was nonexistent.  
  
 Law enforcement never operated this efficiently.        
  


            Inevitably, Cooper made a beeline for his door.

  
This was profoundly irritating.  Albert did _not_ want to be the object of some childish joke, especially one this elaborate.  It was a little scary.    
 

            Sure, it had happened a lot during his early years with the FBI.  At first, he had accepted it as an unfortunate side-effect of starting a new job in a boys' club like the Bureau.  At first, it was nothing particularly malicious; just a series of dumb little bits of misinformation, small incidents designed to make him look less smart than they all knew he was.  Once word had gotten out about Albert's less-than-sunny temperament, however, the pranks had taken a turn for the genuinely disruptive.  He was uncommonly young, uncommonly talented, and had offended an uncommonly large number of people.    
  
The jokes at his expense had inevitably begun resulting in Albert being shoved or outright punched, and soon he had filled out more incident report forms than everyone in his regional office combined.  Eventually, the perpetrators had either been fired, in the most extreme cases, or had learned their lessons, and Albert had been lead to believe that he now commanded a modest level of reluctant respect from his colleagues.  
           

            But if this was true, he wouldn't be breaking into his apartment on Christmas day under the pretense of an investigation.  Fucking conclusion-jumping.  
  


            Cooper reached for the doorknob, frowning slightly when the door proved to be locked.  He turned to Albert and was about to comment on how unusual this was when the pathologist shouldered past him, produced a key, and opened the door.  Cooper stepped in, perplexed. 

            "There's... no murder here."

            "No, but I'm about to commit a murder in the Regional Bureau Chief's office, principles or no principles. Fucking _Gordon_ ," Albert seethed, pointing an accusing finger at his answering machine, which indicated that there was a new message.  "I never expected this kind of bullshit from him."

            Albert pressed the "play message" button so forcefully that he was momentarily concerned that it would break and he would never be able to hear whatever further insults the machine held. 

            "HI THERE, COOP!  ALBERT!  SORRY ABOUT THE RUSE, BUT YOU TWO NEED TO LIGHTEN UP.  IT'S CHRISTMAS.  CONSIDER YOURSELVES ON VACATION FOR THE REST OF THE DAY."  Gordon paused for a moment before exclaiming "AND TOMORROW!" in a horribly smug voice, as if adding that extra day required a stroke of brilliance.  He then bid them farewell with a booming "SAYONARA."  

            Albert needed about forty cigarettes, or some sort of intravenous nicotine line.  Cooper was staring at him, wide-eyed and looking more shocked than he normally did at any murder scene, even the especially grisly ones.  
 

            "Albert, I don't think he means to—"

     
            "I don't give a fuck what he means to do, Cooper," Albert interrupted.  "I don't have to put up with this.  Being shanghaied into giving my coworker a tour of my apartment isn't in my contract.  It's none of Gordon's business that I don't take any time off.  He should be thanking me for it.  And I'd better get paid for today."

            " _Albert,_ I really think—"

  
            "And how am I supposed to believe you're not a part of all this?" Albert continued, his tone growing increasingly hostile.  "I didn't think you'd...." he paused.  He didn't want to turn this into some sappy, overly vulnerable 'i thought you were my friend and you betrayed me' conversation.  "And anyways, you don't 'need to lighten up'.  Everyone already thinks you're too damned—"  
 

            "ALBERT.  I _really_   think we should go get a drink.  Now."

            "Oh," said Albert lamely.  He'd been so worked up that he hadn't noticed that Cooper was a bit put-out as well.  The weird half-smile he wore when anticipating an interesting crime scene had fully dissipated.  Now he just looked tired. 

 

            "Coop, that's probably the sanest thing you've said in years."

 

 

 

END


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